


Easy

by Iwantthatcoat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: And Friendship, Angst, Asexual Sherlock, Asexual to Demisexual Transition, Demisexual Sherlock, Ever Been In Love With A Straight Person And You Aren't, Gen, It Sucks, M/M, Straight John, The title is ironic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-22
Updated: 2013-02-22
Packaged: 2017-12-03 05:39:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/694771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwantthatcoat/pseuds/Iwantthatcoat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for kinkmeme: "Looking for a story where John is genuinely, 100% straight. Sherlock is not as asexual as he appears, and falls in love with John. Eventually, the two have to have an awkward conversation"<br/>[Author's Note: I wanted to clarify that asexuals can and do fall in love, and even may choose to have sex, even if the kinkmeme anon's prompt might seem to question this. And "awkward conversation" is a bit of an understatement.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Easy

When John comes home, Sherlock knows, with what would seem to an observer a casual glance, what his shift was like… the pace, the frustration, the weariness … an endless parade of mothers coming in for antibiotics. They want it, despite the patient, kind and perpetual loop of explanations John provides on why they would do nothing for a viral infection. They want that magic pill, that easy solution. Sherlock knows the imbeciles are ultimately creating drug-resistant strains which will eventually cause everyone’s destruction, and he finds himself admiring the efficiency of the flu virus and rooting for the clever and adaptable resistant bacteria, but… he loves (he finally throws that word on it and it seems to fit) he loves John all the more for his futile attempts at education. And he knows rooting for the pathogens is a bit not good. Lately, every time he sees him he is finding something to admire, a “good” to balance his “not good,” and each step brings him just the tiniest bit closer to accepting humanity at large and to letting his guard down. Well, with one person at least.

And, yes _yes, enough already, John- but I don’t really mean it, do I, because even that draws me to you, and it shouldn’t, it really shouldn’t_ he doesn’t, (or rather didn’t), know what is apparently basic information about the solar system… but somewhere on the walls of his mind palace are framed quotations in elegant calligraphy, and one of them is Shakespeare, (because murderers and kidnapers love quotations when twisted into a moral justification from a higher authority) and it reads “The lady doth protest too much.” It seems like Not-Gay John is doing more than just a bit of that. So maybe there is something there, though he can’t be sure. Because when he tries to deduce the contents of John’s thoughts, the process is contaminated.

With any puzzle, any case, all he wants is a solution. He doesn’t really care about the murderer’s motivation for killing the man who washed up on the shore last week: body dead for three days, wrists bound in bright yellow plastic ropes used for outdoor activities. He doesn’t care _why_. He cares _who_. And to find _who,_ he cares _when._ And to find _who,_ he cares _how, what, where._ The motivation presents itself as a reward; it’s clearly seen in the big picture, after all the puzzle pieces fit together. Emotions are the start the crime, but they are last in his priorities, in work and in life. So, perhaps that is why he is slower to recognize them in others, and in himself. He knows this, at least. But in a case, he doesn’t root for a particular motivation. In The Case of John Watson, he thinks he does. And the wanting, well, that contaminates the deduction. There is only one way around it. He has to ask.

*****

Sherlock is watching him while he works on his blog. He seems to have been doing more of that lately… silently gazing up from the newspaper in between the bites of toast and sips of tea. Sometimes when he catches those vibrant eyes on him, he feels locked in place, like Sherlock’s eyes are some sort of tractor beam. The man has a pull, a force. The man _is_ a force, and John revolves around him like the Earth around the sun. A thought pops into John’s head and he grins and looks away, breaking eye contact... _No wonder Sherlock doesn’t concern himself with astronomy- its rules simply do not apply to him_. John is stuck in his orbit; as infuriating a flatmate as he is, he wouldn’t dream of leaving. As many dates as he’s ruined, (sending him across town with his bloody text message just so he could… well… so he could send a bloody text message for him, that’s why). He’d forgiven him for things he could never conceive of forgiving any other friend for. He is thinking about one of those things as he puts sugar in his own tea himself, thank you very much.

Christ, it would be so easy, wouldn’t it? Their friendship already passes the boundaries of common sense, and there would be no more texts interrupting his dates, no more wondering what to say as the Angelos of the world bring candles to the table, no more deciding how to react when strangers give them a secret smile or a not-quite-concealed frown. Sherlock’s lack of adherence to boundaries and personal space seem to brush up against societal conventions with the same frequency he brushes up against John's shoulder. But it can’t be that simple, can it? His life just can’t be that damn easy, and it never has been.

Because he’s thought about it. Even ran an experiment in the privacy of his own bedroom to see if the theoretical “sliding scale” could slide for him, in his head at least. But it hadn’t. The answer was still, unequivocally, no.  
********

It is another toast and tea morning, sunny and bright. They are seated across from each other at the breakfast table, though Sherlock hasn’t touched the food. Sherlock just solved another case last night, purging the tension of chases through London’s backstreets with his (their) first restful sleep in several days.

He is once again triumphant. Confident. Invincible.

He turns to John with a genuine smile.

“It has come to my attention that there are some gaps in my knowledge base.”

“Yes. Yes, there are. I think we discovered that fact when …”

Sherlock is in no mood for the potential astronomy lecture, so he cuts him off, changes direction. “When I said I was married to my work, I’m afraid I gave the wrong impression.”

He hesitates slightly and his smile fades as John’s eyes meet his. He convinces himself that’s why the hesitation is there, so he can focus completely on John’s face. On his deep blue eyes.

“I’m interested in, starting a romantic relationship…,” Sherlock says, and as the words are coming out he scans for changes in John’s demeanor, clues for how to proceed. At the last possible second he sees it. He does. John’s face does not show anxiety about beginning a new relationship, or relief that his feelings are reciprocated. John’s face shows pride. Arrogance. And that is wrong wrong wrong abort- but the words have already started coming out. His brain, always faster than his mouth, desperately sends the signal to stop, but his ears register John’s enthusiastic “…and you need my help!” as the words “...with you” have already tumbled out of Sherlock’s mouth.

John had seen the tiniest flush of embarrassment, had heard the hesitation in Sherlock’s voice, and he had leaped to his rescue- rejoicing at a rare opportunity to help his best friend open himself up to new possibilities, a potential new relationship, and while John knows he’s hardly the relationship expert, compared to Sherlock he’s Dr. Bloody Ruth. Finally, a real contribution to make.

It takes far too long for the information, barely heard over his own enthusiastic interruption, to process. He freezes- his eyes wide open in shock, while Sherlock’s sink closed

 

*************

When Sherlock's eyes open again there is a blazing fury in them, though his voice remains cold and disdainful.

“John, when someone is talking to you, you might want to try actually listening to them. I talk and you listen, then you talk and I listen. That is called a conversation.”

“Well, while you’re listening to me talk, was there some part of “I’m not gay” that wasn’t clear to you? I mean, I am telling everyone that constantly.”

“Yes. Yes, you are.”

“And that means, what, to you exactly?”

“That you don’t fit neatly into one of the many labels society has decided to place on people based on their actions rather than their thoughts and feelings.” The pace of Sherlock’s speech is increasing rapidly and John struggles like he’s bobbing on ocean waves, clinging to the seat cushion which can also be used as a floatation device after a plane crash. “Did you know that the Kinsey Scale is based entirely on behavior, John? Someone with no sexual experience can’t even use the thing. It doesn’t measure who you fantasize about or how often. Then there are the many other labels people identify with, if they feel it is more accurate based on their perception of their own gender and whether or not gender itself is binary. Originally, people didn’t label themselves, there were just a wide range of behaviors they participated in, or didn’t participate in, and it was not a question of identity. “Gay” means different things to different people.”

“It bloody well doesn’t. It means you like to sleep with blokes…”

“It doesn’t mean that you actually…,” Sherlock began.

“To have sex with blokes," John wasn't about to get derailed by Sherlock's annoying need for fanatical levels of precision. "That’s what it means. And since when did “The Virgin” become such an expert on the many variations of human sexuality?”

“I’m not alarmed by sex, John. I’ve never been alarmed by sex,” he says quietly.

“So go have some then! With somebody else! With somebody who is gay. Or Irene Adler was practically throwing herself at you, you could have had sex with her. Plenty, I'd imagine. At a substantial discount,” his smile is cruel.

“No I couldn’t have. I didn’t want to… I was…,” the words just aren't there. Even if he had them, now was not the time.

“Married to your work? So I wasn’t good enough for you then but I am now, is that it? Now that what, now that I’m dating and have a life you can fuck with when you’re bored with your own, you want to come in and mess with mine, is that it?”

“No, no, I ... ,“ Sherlock was regaining his momentum, and his volume. “Do you think I wanted this? Do you think I wanted to feel all of these..." his hand waving vaguely in the air, "things? I was just fine before I met you- I was just fine. There was me and there was the Work.”

“And the cocaine…,” John interjects.

“Me and the Work,” he continues, ignoring the cheap shot in an attempt to keep the moral high ground. “And I was just fine without dealing with wanting to be around someone. Not being able to concentrate if they aren't there. Not being able to concentrate if they _are_ there!”  
The attempt to keep a calmer demeanor and prevail is shot to hell. “What the hell am I supposed to do with this? If we could just do something about it... just to get it out of my system so I can go back to…”

“Out of your system?!” John is at full volume, visibly struggling not to punch a wall, or topple furniture. “You want me to… to have sex with you so you can go back to forgetting about me?! Even if I did want to, even if I could …”

“You could. Anyone could. Bodies don’t matter, John. Do you not like one of your girlfriends anymore because she gained a stone or cut her hair?”

“Are you honestly comparing the difference between men and women to a haircut?”

“It’s a shell. The packaging doesn’t matter,” says Sherlock, the smugness finding its way back to his voice. “You are so conventional, John. So by the book, so army regulation, dull dull dull.”  
The words spit out of him. Just underneath is the regret. Of course his answer is no. Why had he ever thought it could be anything else. Why had he thought it was worthwhile, to try this. To see where it would lead? Why would he choose someone so beneath him? So tied to other people’s idiotic limits, rules, boundaries, definitions?  
“You’re letting people define your relationships for you, John. Your mind controls your body, and your mind is what …”

“I can’t…,” John says flatly.

“No!” Sherlock interrupts. “No! You can. You just don’t think that you should. You don’t want... you just don’t want to….” Sherlock can't seem to finish the sentence, and it skips before fading away, taking all Sherlock’s energy with it.

“But I do,” John stammers, and Sherlock looks thoroughly baffled. 

“No, not… I mean I would want to. If I could. Don’t you see? It would be better. Easier. I wouldn’t have to date women and worry about that- and it would be just us, together, solving cases, coming home, living our mad life. But it wouldn’t work for me.” He sighed. “Yes, I can control my body, but it would be by thinking of other people, and then I wouldn’t be with you. And that isn’t right and that isn’t fair and you wouldn’t want that.” The intensity is rapidly fading, and the conversation is surprisingly exhausting, but John rallies for one last try. “What do you want?” he says with force of conviction, “Me to sleep with you and think of other people?"

“Of course not.” Sherlock's gaze drops to the floor.

John looks at Sherlock, really looks at him. Now he is the one checking for understanding. He sees those steely-blue irises dart around, as if looking for something to hold on to. To brace.

Sherlock inhales. This next part wasn’t planned. He’s not even sure why he’s going to say it, because he knows... he knows it will sound pitiful. Perhaps if he can prove he’s not just a machine, that he is capable of genuine emotion, John would reconsider the magnitude of what he is offering. Perhaps the words are just coming out on their own volition. Emotion beyond control. The sentences are a series of staccato notes.

“I never thought much about sex. With myself. With anyone else. It wasn’t worth my time. And I wasn’t attracted. To anyone. Drawn to anyone. But then, I found myself… wanting you. Your mind first, and then, your body. Because you, were in it. I wanted to…” _this, this is why sentiment belongs to the losing side, because it makes you say these things and actually mean it… this romantic tripe_ “…to connect in the deepest way possible. With my whole self.”

Now John’s words are calm, soothing. “It won’t work, Sherlock,” he says. “I look at you and I see a beautiful man, sure, and a brilliant mind, and this amazing soul, and you’re a good man, Sherlock. And you are worthy- but it can’t be me.”

“My essence… your essence. The packaging...” Sherlock knows these aren’t the right words. They drift off in search of the new ones that will turn it all around.

“I love your essence, Sherlock. I just don’t love your body. So don’t expect me to…” John fights a cringe here, “…to love your body. Because I don’t. I’m sorry. I didn’t choose to be this way. I didn’t choose to be any way. And neither did you. But, I don’t.” A sadness creeps into his voice. “Sherlock,” John says, so quietly he had to strain to hear. “You can’t logic someone into falling in love with you. But, I do love you. You are my best friend. You always will be.” 

Sherlock wants to keep going until he finds the words. Makes John understand. Wins. But he knows he has already lost. Knows this wasn’t ever something to win. He has never hated love more, even more than when he thought he was defective, incapable of it. High-functioning sociopath. When he does speak again, the only word that comes out is “Fine,” as he grabs his coat and heads past John, out the door.


End file.
